


Rewind

by MaiKusakabe



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: M/M, RoyEd Week 2017, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 04:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11866533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaiKusakabe/pseuds/MaiKusakabe
Summary: After Ed wakes up on Mustang’s couch, things go from weird to weirder.





	Rewind

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Happy RoyEd Week :)
> 
> This is my first time participating on the event as well as the first time I write a RoyEd story, and I’m really excited about it. I’m a sucker for time travel, so of course I had to write something for this prompt.
> 
> Thanks a lot to [TheRedHarlequin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedHarlequin/pseuds/TheRedHarlequin) for beta reading this story :D
> 
> I hope you guys like it!

Ed’s head hurts. In fact, it throbs so badly that he is certain Havoc convinced him to participate in one of those damned drinking games of his. Hawkeye probably has even _more_ blackmail material on Ed now.

Fucking parties.

“You’re awake.”

Oh, yes, _fucking parties._

“Mustang?” Ed asks, surprised by how _awake_ Mustang sounds. For all that he acts cool and collected, Mustang is a lightweight, and Ed can’t remember a single time when he has been hungover and Mustang _hasn’t_.

“Have we met?” Mustang asks, his perfectly-rehearsed aloof officer voice cutting through the fog in Ed’s mind.

_The hell?_

Ed blinks his eyes open with some difficulty, and a bland white ceiling wavers into sight. It’s not the one from Mustang’s office, or Madam Christmas’ bar. It’s not even the one from anywhere in Mustang’s house.

Ed blinks again, tries to stand up, and something around his wrist holds him back.

“Did you fucking _shackle_ me?” he demands, incredulous, and pulls on the chain holding him to what now feels very much like a couch. They’re military-issue handcuffs, the ones that are a bit of a pain in the ass to get out of now that Ed can no longer clap his hands and turn them to scrap.

“It’s a reasonable reaction when someone appears out of nowhere in your living room. Which begs the question of how that even happened,” Mustang says coldly, in a voice Ed doesn’t remember hearing since he was a teenager (“did you kill Hughes?” Mustang asked, once, in Bradley’s office during one of the darkest times of their lives, and Ed still hasn’t forgotten where that pursuit nearly took all of them).

“What the hell are you—?” Ed starts, finally turning to glare at Mustang, but he trails off halfway through his question.

Roy Mustang _is_ sitting on an armchair opposite to the couch, but he isn’t the Mustang Ed was expecting. For starters, he doesn’t look forty, and the bars and stars on his military uniform are all wrong: they aren’t those of the Fuhrer Ed has grown used to seeing on him over the past few years. The fact that Mustang is tapping his dangerously-gloved fingers on the armrest isn’t reassuring.

“How much did I drink?” Ed blurts out, and it’s only then that he realizes he isn’t actually hungover. His head hurts as if it’s trying to split in two, certainly, but he doesn’t feel like throwing up the contents of his stomach. Ed _always_ throws up when he’s hungover.

Mustang raises his eyebrows in his trademark unimpressed expression.

“You appear sober to me.”

_I’m hallucinating,_ Ed decides, because the only time he ever saw Mustang with the uniform of a lieutenant colonel was during their first meeting, back at Resembool. Damn, but Mustang looks _young_. And the hallucination feels real as all fuck.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not,” Ed says, deciding that if he isn’t hallucinating then this is a weird-ass dream. He’s probably passed out on a table or something. “But let’s pretend I am. What the fuck happened?”

Mustang’s eyebrows go up again. Ed hated that expression as a kid. Afterwards… he’s not thinking about that, he’s got enough shit going on without adding _that_.

“You don’t remember?”

Ed scrunches his face up trying to place his last memory. No party, no Havoc giving him anything, no exasperated Al pretending Ed is the only one accepting drinks… actually, the last thing he can remember is…

Ed grimaces.

“Last I can tell, this asshole third rate alchemist got the drop on me and I woke up tied in one of those lame, stereotypical labs with the caged chimeras and everything. He was going on about how pathetic it is that the Fullmetal Alchemist can’t do alchemy anymore, tried to get my “secrets” out of me, I told him to fuck off, blah blah blah, he knocked me out…” Ed shrugs. He was just making time for Al to come get him out, really. This must be his blow-induced hallucination then.

“I’ve never heard of a Fullmetal Alchemist,” Mustang says, and that just doesn’t fit. If Ed is hallucinating about a young Mustang, then shouldn’t he act as such and be a bastard colonel? Or lieutenant colonel, at any rate.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ed says with a shrug. “I’ll wake up soon to a worried Al and an unconscious asshole, and I’m _never_ mentioning this shit to you. You wouldn’t let me live it down.”

Mustang’s eyebrows seem to have taken permanent residence up in his forehead.

“You think you’re dreaming?”

Ed shrugs again.

“You got a better explanation for this?”

“I believe so,” Mustang says. He stands up, walks up to Ed and grabs his free arm with enough strength to bruise.

Ed winces and glances down at the hand and his _hurting_ arm.

“Oh, well, _fuck_ ,” Ed mutters. But this can still be a dream. One in which his brain is even recreating Mustang’s _presence_ because it’s so addictive that Ed has memorized it. “Some dreams make you believe you’re feeling pain,” Ed says, and almost manages to sound reasonable.

He ignores the part of his mind that reminds him Mustang wouldn’t just be standing there if this was a dream. But instead Mustang simply lets go of Ed’s arm and returns to his seat, walking backwards so Ed never leaves his sight.

“For the sake of this conversation, let’s pretend that you are awake. Who are you?” Mustang asks just as coldly as before.

Ed bites his bottom lip, considers just how seriously he should reply, and in that moment his eyes wander over Mustang’s shoulder and catch sight of what’s on the wall. A calendar and a clock.

He curses. Then he curses some more when the thought that he _might_ actually be awake finds something to cling to. Because Ed’s life is just fucked up enough that this might even make sense.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Okay, so, if I’m awake then this is fucking bullshit,”_ the man that is still shackled in Roy’s living room —and Roy still isn’t sure why he didn’t simply have him arrested— said after an impressive demonstration of curse words. _“You’re going to Resembool tomorrow.”_ It wasn’t a question. _“The alchemist you wanna recruit? He’s eleven, not thirty-one, and he’s got a ten year old brother who’s also a genius alchemist.”_

Roy holds back a shiver when the man taking him and Riza to Edward Elric’s house says as much. The stranger who refused to give a name or any information about himself could have heard about the kids anywhere.

_“And you’re walking into hell.”_

When Roy steps into the study, blood covering everything, he barely has time to spare a thought for the odd man back home before he storms out.

 

* * *

 

 

“You knew they would do that,” Roy accuses coldly the moment the door closes behind him. The stranger has freed himself from the shackles and is sitting on the couch. He is looking at his lap instead of at Roy.

“They already had when I woke up,” the stranger says, his voice oddly empty in a way that makes Roy’s blood boil. If he cares, and he obviously _does_ , then why didn’t he warn anybody? Why didn’t he _stop those children_?

Roy wants to march over and shake him… maybe _punch him_. So he takes two steps forward, grabs the man by his shirt—

“You did the same,” the man says suddenly. Roy stops. “To Ed. You grabbed him like this and demanded to know what had happened, what he had done. You were yelling, but then Al stepped in and you stopped when you realized the armor was empty. You were horrified, you still are, but you offered Ed to join the military anyway. You want to help them, true, but you also did it because bringing someone like that into the army, someone good enough to pull off that transmutation at eleven, will look good on you.”

Roy is frozen in place, his hands still loosely holding the shirt, as he listens to this man, this stranger who _wasn’t there_ , describe today’s events with such accuracy.

“Who are you?”

The man finally looks at him, and this is the second time in a day that Roy is met by fiercely determined yet desperate golden eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Ed has spent nearly a full day sitting in a tiny apartment, one that has all the important pictures of Mustang’s younger years that Ed remembers being on display at Mustang’s house in Central. None of them seem off, and there are none from later years in sight.

Nothing strange, or stranger anyway, happens. Ed frees himself, raids Mustang’s fridge, and has far too much time to think. The minutes pass by, and with each of them the horrible feeling of _reality_ grows stronger.

But it makes no sense. Ed is supposed to be laughing at Al while Al frets over Mei’s pregnancy, pretending that he isn’t worried sick as well, because someone has to keep a cool head and Winry is just as bad as Al when she isn’t venting her emotions on some automail. The only reason they even came to East despite Ed being on holiday is because Madam Christmas recommended a doctor some of her girls here have worked with after hearing of Mei’s complicated pregnancy through Rebecca.

Ed was just getting groceries. Groceries that are probably ruined on the street. But surely he should be awake by now.

If he isn’t already.

These are the thoughts in Ed’s mind when Mustang barges in, and they are likely the reason why Ed spills everything out. He can tell that Mustang doesn’t believe him, or at least he doesn’t until Ed mentions Ishval. Mustang’s objectives. His ridiculous idea about how to protect people that Ed believes in. Hughes. The burned tattoo on Hawkeye’s back. And then Ed is talking about homunculi, about Envy shooting the Ishvalan child to start the war, about Father, Bradley, the brass, the Philosopher’s Stone, the nationwide transmutation circle, the human sacrifices.

Ed doesn’t know if he is dreaming or awake and by the end of it, with his voice hoarse and his throat hurting, he is certain that Mustang isn’t sure if _he_ is awake or dreaming either.

Maybe they are both trapped in a nightmare.

 

* * *

 

 

Roy passed out at some point. When he wakes up, curled up on the carpet because he couldn’t be bothered to move anywhere else, he finds out that he isn’t the only one. The stranger… no, _a twenty-six year old Edward Elric_ is asleep on the couch.

Roy buries his face in his hands, then pushes said hands through his hair with enough force to tear some strands off and stands up brusquely.

He needs to get drunk. He needs to get horribly, mind-numbingly drunk. As much as Roy would like to dismiss Edward’s words as the ravings of a madman, the truth remains that Edward knows too many details and too many private facts for Roy not to take him seriously.

He stalks to the kitchenette and starts rummaging through cabinets, looking for the leftover alcohol he knows was left after Maes’ last visit.

Maes, who died (who will die, _who won’t die_ ), killed by a homunculus for knowing too much.

Roy finds two bottles. Different kinds of alcohol, one still unopened. _Good_.

“You’d better share that.”

Roy turns around. Edward is awake, and he looks as bad as Roy feels. Worse, even. Roy has just learned he might lose his life, but Edward has already lost his.

Roy grabs two glasses and sits on the couch next to Edward. He opens the half-full bottle —some kind of scotch— and doesn’t bother with propriety: he fills their glasses until they almost spill over, then downs half of his. So does Edward.

“Homunculi, huh?” Roy asks, though he isn’t even sure he expects an answer.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Won’t Hawkeye kill you if you show up hungover?” Edward asks before finishing his glass. He grabs the bottle and refills it.

“I have tomorrow off.”

They don’t talk any more. What do you say when you learn that your entire country has been built to be slaughtered? That you went to hell, made countless people live through hell, because a bunch of monsters —human and homunculi alike— needed a damned bloodbath to activate their circle? One out of _ten_ bloodbaths?

They get horribly drunk and pass out on the couch.

 

* * *

 

 

This time when Ed wakes up, he _is_ hungover. He cracks his eyes open before snapping them shut again. There is far too much light in the room, and everything just sways around him.

But it’s still the same room, he is still on the same couch, curled into an almost completely sitting position, and there is a weight on his shoulder. At some point Mustang’s head fell there, and his ridiculously soft hair brushes Ed’s cheek.

If Mustang asks, Ed will say that he doesn’t move because he doubts his head will forgive him if he does. The truth is that having someone there, so close that they are literally leaning on one another, is comforting. And this is Mustang, whom Ed knows he can count on even if Mustang only knows the general outline Ed laid out for him yesterday.

Ed needs people to rely on, he needs… he isn’t sure. He’s awake, he is pretty sure of it by now, but he shouldn’t be. Well, he _should_ be awake, but he should be standing in the hospital’s hallway, acting as moral support while Mei and Al talk to the doctor. He shouldn’t be here, curled up on the couch of a twenty-five year old Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang two days after his idiotic past self attempted human transmutation, trying to understand something that makes _no fucking sense_.

Shit, he needs Al.

“You should go be sick in the bathroom,” Mustang’s groggy voice cuts through Ed’s thoughts.

“Why’d I do that?”

“It’d distract you from whatever you’re thinking.”

Ed hums, but doesn’t move.

“Then maybe _you_ should go,” Ed says, because whatever Mustang is thinking about has him so distracted that he is still using Ed as a pillow. Or maybe he just has a hellish headache. Mustang gets those when he’s hungover, too.

“I doubt I’d make it,” Mustang groans, and Ed huffs something that would have been a laugh if he had the energy for it.

They stay where they are, and eventually not even the excessive light in the room is enough to keep them awake.

 

* * *

 

 

Roy is alone on the couch when he wakes up the second time, but the distinctive scratch of a pen on paper tells him that he isn’t alone in the room. Indeed, when Roy opens his eyes he finds Edward sitting on the carpet by the coffee table, surrounded by a sea of strewn papers and carefully drawing what seems like an array.

He is so focused that he fails to notice it when Roy moves.

Roy leaves him be for now and reaches for one of the nearest papers. It’s a list of names and bullet points scrawled in a barely-intelligible handwriting.

_Hohenheim:_

_*Catch him at Resembool._

_*Wait for his array to be done._

_Scar_ (Roy freezes, just a moment, recognizing the name of the Ishvalan Edward mentioned, the one who has made it his life’s goal to kill every single State Alchemist) _:_

_*Had killed a bunch of alchemists when we met at East._

_*Track him? How?_

_*How to convince him? Fuck (_ this is written so harshly it cuts through the paper. _)_

_NINA!!!_

_Her mom too. How?_

_Hughes_ (Roy feels a pang. He knows what Edward means here. It won’t happen, Roy won’t allow it.)

_Ling and the others will show up sometime in autumn. Rush Valley (_ there are some dates scratched out _). Youswell.  When? Mei was with Scar at Central._

The list continues until the bottom of the page, and then on the back. Roy knows some people, recognizes some names, but others are unknown. He grimaces when he sees the interrogation marker next to Olivier Armstrong’s name. He believes Edward when he says Major General Armstrong was on their side, but that doesn’t mean Roy has any idea of how to approach her. It seems that Edward doesn’t, either.

A paper is thrust before his face and Roy looks up.

“What’s this?” he asks, accepting the paper.

“The array Marcoh made to destroy Stones.”

“You remember it?” Roy asks before he can think about it.

Edward nods.

“We talked about it once on Ishval.”

Ishval, which Edward mentioned Roy was helping rebuild even as Fuhrer. Roy pushes that thought aside, he doesn’t need any demons or what ifs haunting him (it won’t be a what if forever, though, it _will_ happen, but it can’t be until the homunculi are gone), and focuses on the array and the notes scribbled all around it.

“I’ll memorize it,” Roy says, setting it on the cushion next to him. “Is all of this about the homunculi?”

Edward nods and reaches for another paper.

“I thought I’d write everything down. Here, I’ve been thinking about—“

Roy leans closer and listens to Edward’s thoughts on where their potential allies might be now and in the future. Edward has put an awful lot of information together in a short period of time, and Roy knows he isn’t the only one who is trying to prevent his thoughts from wandering.

Somehow, without even talking about it, they have agreed to stop this nightmare.


End file.
